Farthing (9 page)

Viscount, she had to be right about rearmament, or peace with Hitler, or some other complicated policy.

Tibs surprised me by having a good grasp of the things Sir James had done—not just the Peace, which anyone would have known, but things like the education bill he was sponsoring at the moment. He surprised me again when he said that he believed that the murder had been done by terrorists.

“How would they have got into the house?” I asked, swallowing the last of my soup.

“Probably earlier in the evening, disguised as guests, and then hidden themselves to wait.

They’re always disguising themselves, these anarchist fellows,” he said. “Or, perhaps they came in through the window.

In and out again. With ropes.” He looked quite enthusiastic at that idea. “Hugh and I climbed in at

Allingham once,” he said.

“Allingham is Gothic,” I said. “It’s covered with protrusions. It’s eminently climbable. Farthing isn’t.”

Tibs looked a little dashed. “They might have used grappling hooks,” he said.

“Why would anarchists want to kill him anyway?” I asked. The servants were bringing in the fish course, and it would be my duty to talk to Mark, but they hadn’t reached us yet.

“Anarchists always want to stir up trouble, and killing a prominent politician would do that.

Why, some people were saying he’d lead the party and then the country at the next election. Or they might just like killing people. Have you heard of the Thugs in India?”

I had, but I didn’t think them relevant. Jeffrey handed me my plate and so I was obliged to turn to Mark, who annoyed me for the entire fish course by telling me lies about how he found the body. I knew they were lies, and so did he, but I couldn’t tell him that I knew, which made it very awkward. I tried to change the subject, without success. Usually I quite liked talking to Mark, who was amusing and made me laugh, but not this time. He described the body to me, which is how I came to learn that Sir James was stabbed through the heart, and that there had been a Jewish star of the Continental kind left on the body.

I looked over at David, who was quietly spearing his asparagus and talking to Sukey. I had thought

Mummy’s accusations wild and prejudiced, but I had not known about the star. It occurred to me for the first time that David might be seriously suspected of the murder, suspected perhaps by the police. He must have realized this before; he must have heard the details earlier. Yet he sat there calmly and, feeling

my eyes on him, looked up and smiled across at me. I wanted to protect him, to fling my arms around him and keep him from being hurt, or to enclose him behind castle walls where nobody could reach him.

Instead I had brought him here where he had to sit down and eat salmon in hollandaise sauce among his enemies. Mummy was at the head of the table, as usual. She was entirely absorbed in talking to Sir

Thomas Manningham. I wished suddenly that Tibs’s imaginary terrorist murderer who had come among us to stab a prominent politician had chosen to kill her instead.

8

It was late evening before they could even think about getting away from Farthing. With Jeffrey’s cooperation they had managed to be assigned a little room, usually one of Lord Eversley’s offices. It had a telephone extension and a desk, and could be used for interviews. Carmichael had appropriated the very comfortable chair behind the desk. Between them, they had managed to have at least a preliminary interview with everyone. The servants had brought them a very passable dinner, and even taken something down to Izzard on the gate. When Yately came to report, Carmichael told him that he was about done for the day.

“Can you recommend somewhere to stay in Winchester?” Carmichael asked. “There’s no point in going to town and coming down again tomorrow.”

Yately smiled. “The Eversley Arms in Castle Farthing is very convenient, and I’m told the food is good and the rooms clean.”

Royston shuddered. “The locals call that village Clock Farthing,” he remarked.

Carmichael laughed. “Winchester will be quieter, I think.”

“There’s the George, or the King’s Head,” Yately said. “Or there’s the Station Hotel at Farthing Junction. That’s very much on the spot.”

“We’ll try it,” Carmichael said. “Royston, get directions to Farthing Junction from Jeffrey. Make sure they’re clear. And when you’ve got them, bring the car up.” The railway line was marked on his map, but he didn’t repose much trust in the map anymore, especially in the dark.

“I’ll be sending a man out to relieve Izzard as soon as I get back,” Yately said.

“Very good. Make sure there’s someone on the gates twenty-four hours a day.” Carmichael yawned and stretched. “Six-hour shifts probably makes most sense.”

“It’s going to be a bit difficult keeping everyone here,” Yately said. “Some of them have already been asking me about leaving.”

“Who?” Carmichael asked.

“Mrs. Kahn, Sir Thomas Manningham, and the Earl of Hampshire,” Yately said. “I told them all that everyone is to stay for the time being but that they might be able to go home tomorrow.”

“The Earl of Hampshire might, but I’m not so sure about Mrs. Kahn,” Carmichael said.

“Ah, you think Kahn did it?”

“That would be anticipating a great deal,” Carmichael said. “At the moment, I don’t think anybody did it;

I try to keep my mind open to all the possibilities. If Kahn did it, his wife must have been in it.

She’s his alibi. I can’t see any possible motivation for her to have been involved, but then women are inexplicable

and she clearly loves Kahn. Kahn is very much a suspect at present, but I don’t really see any overwhelming evidence in any direction.”

“Some people can go about at midnight in country houses more easily than others,” Yately said.

“It was later than midnight—he was seen alive at one,” Carmichael said, idly. “I’ll be very interested in

Green’s report; please do your best to bring it with you tomorrow morning.”

“It should answer a number of questions,” Yately agreed. “But even as it is, we know the timing is between one and nine.”

“I think we can be quite definite that nobody could have got in from outside after one,”

Carmichael said.

Yately sighed, reluctant to let go of the figure of the mysterious cloaked anarchist. “Sergeant Royston has checked that the bedroom window is inaccessible. The downstairs windows could have been broken into, but not without leaving evidence, and there is no evidence,” he said, dolefully.

Carmichael put his finger on a spot on the floor plan. “The servants were up in the attics, and couldn’t come down without passing either Mrs. Simons or Mr. Hatchard, whose rooms are on the ends of the female and male servants’ quarters respectively. The doors were locked and they had the keys. That lets out the servants entirely unless the housekeeper or the butler are either involved or complicit. That leaves us with the family and the guests, and Miss Dorset, however we classify her.”

“Then it has to be Mr. Kahn,” Yately said. Outside, Carmichael heard the friendly purring of the police

Bentley, and the sound of the tires on the gravel. “Out of the fifteen people, he’s the only one with a motive.”

“Not much of a motive,” Carmichael said. “His motive amounts to the fact of his religion. He’s Jewish—Thirkie hated Jews and helped to make peace with Hitler. Do you think he couldn’t subdue his anger at that if he could bear to marry the daughter of Lord Eversley? And to kill this way, leaving the star, would be the act of a very stupid man, which Kahn isn’t, unless I miss my guess. I’ve only had a few words with him, I’ll interview him properly tomorrow, but I’m keeping my mind very much open.”

Royston came back in. “I’ve got the directions, sir, and the car’s ready to go,” he said.

“Well done,” Carmichael said, standing up.

“I’ll go too,” Yately said, opening the door. “I don’t know about your open mind, mine’s open too, but if

Kahn’s motive is thin then it seems that nobody else has a motive at all.”

“Cui bono?”

Carmichael asked, going out of the door. “We’ll know that tomorrow when we have his will. I’ve also asked for profiles on the other guests, just anything the Yard might have, to see if there might be some motives there. Maybe it is the Duke of Hampshire after all.”

Yately didn’t laugh. Indeed, he looked a little affronted. “Everyone knows his Grace doesn’t care about anything except hunting and horseflesh,” he said, as if it were a severe reproof.

Carmichael laughed and clapped him on the back as he went by.

The butler, Hatchard, opened the front door. Lady Eversley drifted out of one of the rooms as he did so.

“Ah…” she said.

“The police gentlemen are just leaving, my lady,” the butler said.

“Will that be all, then, Inspector?” she asked Carmichael. “Is the matter over with, and can I expect to be able to come and go normally tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Eversley,” he said. “We’re stopping for the night, but we’ll be back in the morning, and we won’t stop until we have caught the murderer.”

“Stopping for the night, my goodness,” she said. “Well, tomorrow is all right, but I absolutely have to be in London on Tuesday.” She smiled, a smile that reminded Carmichael of an illustration he had seen in

Anderson’s

The Snow Queen when he was a boy. He found himself wishing for the second time that day for
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an invasion, even the invasion of the Third Reich the Farthing Set had averted. He didn’t like Hitler—in fact he suspected that he disliked Hitler considerably more than Lady Eversley did—but

Hitler’s storm troopers might have shaken her ladyship up a little and made her rethink her priorities.

“A man has been killed,” he said, giving her ice for ice. “I can’t yet say how long this will take.”

“We’re all terribly distressed about Sir James,” she said, confidingly. “I hope it isn’t making me seem short-tempered and callous. But there’s a very important vote on Tuesday, and Sir James himself certainly wouldn’t have wanted my husband to have missed it.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make promises at this stage,” Carmichael said.

“Thank you,” she said, with a very sweet smile, then swept back through the door she had come through.

“Bitch,” Royston said under his breath as they came out onto the gravel.

“Not impressed with her attempt to charm?” Carmichael asked, closing the door of the Bentley.

“Me neither. She’s a country-running bitch. A first-in-class, best-in-show, one-hundred-percent bitch, thoroughbred Southern English.”

“She doesn’t seem as upset as I’d have thought she would be that her friend’s been murdered,”

Royston said as he drove off towards the gates. Yately was behind them, his lights blinding when Carmichael glanced back.

“If he was her friend,” Carmichael said.

“Why would she invite him to stay in her house if he wasn’t her friend?” Royston asked.

“He might have thought she was his friend,” Carmichael said.

Royston digested that in silence as they passed Izzard on the gates and began to wind their way through the little Hampshire lanes. “Do you really think she did it?” he asked after a few miles.

“I’m keeping an open mind,” Carmichael said primly.

The Station Hotel was probably best described as “unpretentious.” Carmichael didn’t really get a chance to see it until he woke up there the next morning. He lay awake for a little while luxuriating in his comfortable bed and contemplating the cross-stitch text on the opposite wall:

“Hold fast to that which is good.” He couldn’t remember where that came in the Bible, which was surprising, what with all the verses he’d had to learn in school. It had been the usual punishment, learning Bible verses, and if it had been useless, at least it had furnished his mind with quotations. He’d missed out on that one, though.

Hold fast to that which is good—what the devil did it mean? Grab onto something you like and cling on as tight as you could? There’s a creed for the Eversleys and Thirkies of this world.

Carmichael admitted to himself that he didn’t like the inside of Farthing one bit more than he’d liked the countryside that

surrounded it. Lady Eversley was holding fast to what she had, all right, and condescending beautifully to make sure nobody else got their hands on any of it. He didn’t really think she’d killed Thirkie. She had no reason to, and her hands were small and delicate. Green’s report should rule her either in or out on that count. He wished she had done it, though, because it would have been a pleasure to be able to hang her.

Did they hang Viscountesses? Or did they rate execution by the sword, like Anne Boleyn?

How would she act on the scaffold? She’d keep a stiff upper lip to the last, no doubt, holding fast to that which is good until it was quite gone. Was it James the First who had continued to talk after his head had been cut off? Hold fast—Carmichael sighed. The text could perhaps be read as an exhortation to uphold the good and true. That sounded a little more like something Jesus would have said.

Carmichael got up, washed in cold water, and went down to breakfast. To his surprise, the food was good—fresh eggs, scrambled with ham and cheese, on good thick toast. There was even
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The Times, no doubt fresh down from London on the milk train, with an account of the Thirkie murder as the lead story, and a second column header that Kursk had changed hands again.

Carmichael wasn’t sure, and didn’t bother to check, if that meant the Nazis or the Soviets had seized control this time. No doubt the press would be all over Farthing this morning. It was a good thing they had a bobby at the gate.

Royston joined him, and the landlady put another plate in front of him. She came back with a pot of tea.

Carmichael, who liked his tea weak, put the paper down and poured his immediately. “Tea?” he asked.

“In a moment, sir, if you don’t mind,” Royston said. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, but I woke up with a cynical eye on the world,” Carmichael said. “Is there a text in your room?”